


Sinking Deep

by Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt is of course Shook by this, M/M, Mild Gore, you can't run from the gay thoughts with an injured leg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24428131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum/pseuds/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum
Summary: "What can I do?" Jaskier said. His voice was gentle, somehow close and far away all at once. He was at Geralt's side, Geralt realised, the pressure he could feel at his temple simply Jaskier cleaning the blood from his skin."Just keep talking.""You've not once ever asked me that." His eyes widened. "Oh, fuck. You really are dying, aren't you?"When Geralt is injured during a hunt, Jaskier is uniquely skilled to help provide a distraction. And what he reveals is certainly distracting.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 552
Collections: Best Geralt





	Sinking Deep

In hindsight, Geralt should have charged more. A nest of drowners, he had assumed from what he could piece together of the villagers' distraught retellings of what had been attacking their kin. Easy enough to clear out. Until he had made his way to the river where they had made their nest and seen the steep, craggy rocks on either side, lethal if he took a wrong step in the dark. That alone would have made the task considerably more difficult.

And these weren't ordinary drowners.

Geralt spun, sword outstretched, but the creatures moved even faster than his blade. They were well used to the rocks, clambering over and around with ease as Geralt struggled simply to maintain his footing. Each slice of his sword came just a second too late. Within minutes he was surrounded.

Half a dozen, perhaps; they darted out of the shadows, all snapping teeth and swiping claws, and back again too quickly for Geralt to be certain. He swung again. His boot slipped on a patch of slime smeared across the stone, but as he righted himself he managed to catch the closest drowner with the edge of his sword. Hardly a clean strike. Yet it went down with a shriek, flailing as Geralt leaped over it to chase down the next. It wouldn't be getting up again.

He took out another pair with a little more skill, cutting straight through wet, putrid skin. The smell of it burned at the back of his throat. But the creatures were still fast, and the rocks were growing ever more precarious as more blood and ooze splashed across them. Geralt had wasted too many precious seconds fighting for balance each time he lost and gained ground.

Claws slashed, and Geralt deflected, his sword creating a trail of sparks as it scraped against the sheer rock face instead of colliding with skin and bone.

"Fuck," he gritted out, and pressed on.

High above, the clouds began to thin, and the creeping brightness of the full moon helped ward off all but the most determined of shadows. Geralt could see now where he could grab a handhold to haul himself up onto a flatter outcrop, staring down at the worst of the jagged rocks rather than attempting to fight amongst them. Still, there were pockets of intense blackness in the deepest crevices that not even Geralt's eyesight could penetrate — the perfect place to hide before launching an attack.

Sure enough, there was a shift amongst the shadows: another drowner, springing up towards Geralt with teeth bared. Geralt was ready for it. He thrust his sword downwards, dropping to his knee to throw his entire weight behind the motion, piercing the drowner through its throat.

There was one left now, scurrying along the water's edge, and Geralt frowned as he watched its movements. He was sure he'd counted more. Ears pricked for the wet slap of webbed feet on the rocks to his back, he braced himself for the moment the drowner surged towards him to drag him down into the cold water below. It launched itself up, and Geralt swung his sword, sending an arm off flying before its claws could sink into his leg.

It didn't slow the thing down. Geralt darted back to avoid the other hand reaching for his ankle — and that was when he found the missing drowner, landing with all its weight on Geralt's shoulders.

On steady ground, it would have been nothing. He could have shrugged the drowner off and dispatched it without a thought, done the same to the last of them and already be on his way back to the village to collect his coin.

Geralt wasn't on steady ground.

Off balance, his foot slipped, and the weight of the creature pulled him down. His sword clattered to the ground as he tumbled.

He hit the rocks below, hard. The impact knocked the air from his chest, and the smell of his own blood was thick enough in his nose to gag him. But he didn't have time to examine the severity of the wound, didn't have time to catch his breath. He was still conscious; that was good enough.

Sharp teeth sank deep into Geralt's thigh, and he shouted at the burning pain of it, manoeuvring himself as best he could in his awkward position to kick the thing away from him. The other one was still on top of him, its claws scrabbling uselessly at his armour. It wouldn't be long before the creature found a weak spot if Geralt couldn't shake it off.

"Geralt!"

_Jaskier_. Shit.

Panic flooded Geralt's veins, ice cold as if he'd already taken a plunge into the river. He couldn't climb back up to place himself between the drowners and Jaskier. Couldn't do anything to stop them if they turned their attentions to Jaskier instead, an even easier target than a weaponless, pinned down witcher.

He curled his fist around the slimy arm of the creature nearest before it could turn in the direction of Jaskier's voice. That was enough to regain its attention. Teeth snapped, too close to Geralt's throat, and Geralt wrestled his forearm into the small gap between the drowner's jaw and his own. With a grunt, he snapped its neck.

Before it had even flopped down onto him, Geralt was seeking out the last of them. He spotted it moving into position on the rocks above, jaws still dripping with Geralt's blood. It straightened, preparing to launch itself back down on Geralt.

It didn't have chance.

Geralt's sword burst through the creature's chest. Behind it was stood Jaskier.

Geralt must have hit his head harder than he'd thought. But the image didn't waver when he blinked, didn't dissolve back into nothing, and Geralt forced himself to really take in the scene. Jaskier's aim looked true, the blade piercing right through the thing's heart. But if it was still clinging to some small glimmer of life…

Jaskier was too close. He was always too damn close.

"The head!" Geralt shouted as he struggled to dislodge the rancid weight on top of him.

Jaskier wrenched Geralt's sword free and swung with an impressive motion. One clean slice, and the drowner's head hit the ground with a wet thud. Jaskier hopped back out of the way with a grimace as the body followed suit.

"Oh, gods," he said. "You never warned me about the smell."

Geralt stared at Jaskier stood on the rocks above him. He still had Geralt's sword clutched in his hands, the blade glinting under the moonlight. But Geralt didn't allow himself a moment to appreciate the sight. Now that the imminent danger was gone, Geralt's panic had given way, leaving room for anger to settle in its wake.

It could so easily have been Jaskier's body lying there on the rocks.

"I told you to stay with Roach."

"Yeah, you're welcome." He picked up the head and wrinkled his nose at it. "Bit funny looking for drowners, aren't they?"

"Subspecies," Geralt forced out through gritted teeth. His back throbbed where he had hit the rocks. Blood dripped, thick and warm, from the gash on his forehead down into his eye, quicker than he could blink it away. "Faster. More deadly."

He wrenched himself back up with far less grace than Jaskier would give him credit for when he inevitably turned this into another ballad. His head pounded with the effort. And the burning at his thigh was only spreading.

"Damn. We should have negotiated a better payment." He tossed the head to Geralt, who caught it with a grunt, and he frowned. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

"Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me; I must have mistaken your happy surly demeanour for your pained surly demeanour. Wait — don't try to move, you idiot. Here—"

With light steps Jaskier picked his way over and wrapped his arm around Geralt's side. Together they gingerly clambered back up from the riverbank. By the time they had reached the grassy verge, Jaskier was supporting more of Geralt's weight than Geralt would have thought him capable.

"If I'd known you were this hurt, I would have brought Roach along with me," Jaskier said. He grunted with the strain of near-dragging Geralt, but he didn't complain, didn't ask to stop for a moment.

"It's not that—"

"Oh, shut up."

Geralt's feet tangled in the long grass as Jaskier led them back to their camp, his leg all but useless now, numbness settling where the red-hot pain hadn't yet spread. Jaskier helped him onto the ground by the fire and crouched in front of him.

Concern lined Jaskier's brow as he studied Geralt. For all the times Geralt had caused that look, it still didn't suit him.

Jaskier peeled off Geralt's armour, hands smoothing over his torso in search of other injuries, before they worked their way down to Geralt's thigh. If Geralt's breathing caught and turned uneven, it was only because of the pain. His leg throbbed beneath Jaskier's palm. Jaskier's fingers found the puncture holes in Geralt's trousers and were working open his buttons in an instant.

"What are you doing?"

"Let me take a look." He pulled Geralt's trousers down to tangle around his boots, and his hands went back to Geralt's skin.

Geralt pulled the hem of his shirt down between his legs as Jaskier examined the bite. It was nothing Jaskier hadn't seen before, but with his hands so close to Geralt's crotch, fingers brushing tender against the sensitive skin of his thigh, Geralt couldn't be sure how his body would respond. It seemed to have a mind of its own whenever Jaskier touched him. Geralt swallowed and forced his thoughts from the memories of Jaskier's hands on him which had begun creeping from where Geralt kept them shoved down.

"It doesn't look much," Jaskier said, frowning.

"Venom."

Jaskier's head shot up, his eyes wide. Geralt could hear his heartbeat take a sudden spike. "But you have an antidote?"

The breath punched out of Jaskier's lungs when Geralt shook his head.

"It's minor," he said, before Jaskier could panic, or start composing the epic ballad of Geralt's downfall. He couldn't guess which would be Jaskier's first response to the prospect of Geralt's death. "My body will have broken it down in a few hours."

"And until then?"

Geralt gritted his teeth. "I need to wait it out."

It wouldn't be a pleasant experience, but it was nothing compared to some of the things Geralt had been through. At least the company would be better this time. And given Jaskier's knack for distracting Geralt at even the most inopportune times, perhaps his presence might help the night pass a little easier.

Geralt didn't usually need much help focusing on Jaskier.

His eyes fell to his sword lying on the ground beside them. "Where did you learn to wield a sword like that?"

"From you," Jaskier replied, as if it was obvious, and Geralt watched him work while he set about bandaging Geralt's thigh.

He'd always known about Jaskier's tendency to creep far too close to the fight, though he had always assumed it was simply to better document the events, more fodder for his tales of heroics. Something tugged sharp within him at the thought that Jaskier had been studying how Geralt fought as well.

"Not bad for a novice."

Jaskier looked up at him then, with a smile bright as the sun. It was as if, for a moment, there was nothing more pressing between them, nothing more important to Jaskier than Geralt's approval. Jaskier remembered himself then, his smile fading a little while he turned his attention back to Geralt's leg and tucked the end of the bandage into place.

"It's heavier than I thought it would be," he said. He sat back onto his heels, and his eyes flicked over Geralt. "Explains all those muscles, I suppose."

Geralt hummed as he struggled back into his trousers. "Maybe one day I'll teach you how to use it properly."

"If you survive until morning, I'll hold you to that."

He shifted to try and get comfortable, and immediately Jaskier was there to help, piling their packs behind Geralt's back to prop him up. The fire was too hot where Geralt sat, but still he shivered. This was the part he hated the most. He could feel the venom spreading through him, searing inside his veins. He closed his eyes as his vision blurred at the edges.

"The villagers who were attacked," Jaskier said. "Is this what their last hours would have been like?"

"No." It was some effort to force the word out. "They'd have been dead in seconds."

Jaskier was quiet for a long stretch. "Well that's some comfort, I suppose."

Hardly. No matter how long it took to kill you, you were still dead at the end of it. Geralt had long ago learned there was little comfort to be found in this life. His head dropped back against their bundled things, and he bit back a gasp when another wave of white-hot fire pulsed along his leg.

"What can I do?" Jaskier said. His voice was gentle, somehow close and far away all at once. He was at Geralt's side, Geralt realised, the pressure he could feel at his temple simply Jaskier cleaning the blood from his skin.

"Just keep talking."

"You've not once ever asked me that." His eyes widened. "Oh, fuck. You really are dying, aren't you?"

"I'm not dying, Jaskier. I just need a distraction."

He sat back down opposite Geralt, but his eyes were still fixed on him, concern still heavy on his features. "Right, okay. I can do that." He cast about for ideas — not that Geralt had ever found him struggling for topics of conversation before. "Did I ever tell you how I got kicked out of Dorian?"

"I assume by sleeping with someone you shouldn't have."

"The magistrate's wife."

Geralt smiled. "And let me guess: the magistrate caught you in the act and had you chased out of town."

"Close," Jaskier said, his voice mild, but there was a familiar glint of mischief in his eye. He could barely restrain his grin. "He joined in, first."

That… wasn't what Geralt had expected.

His head swam as the full meaning of Jaskier's words sunk through the fog in his mind and settled firmly in place. He had found himself contemplating Jaskier's romantic life more often than he perhaps should have, over the years — a thing he had rationalised as the unwanted product of Jaskier's habit of fucking within Geralt's earshot — and in that time he had never seriously considered the possibility that Jaskier enjoyed male company as well.

Geralt could feel his cheeks beginning to heat. He shook his head.

"You don't believe me."

"I do. That's the problem."

The fire spat, and Geralt's leg throbbed, and Jaskier spoke again.

"Of course, the magistrate couldn't have word getting out that he'd let another man seduce his wife, and certainly not about all the places his own cock had ended up afterwards, so…" He walked his fingers through the air as if in hasty retreat. "Goodbye, Jaskier. Thank you for your service." A pause, then: "I wonder if they'd welcome me back next time I find myself headed that way."

Geralt swallowed. He didn't know what to do with these new details, and already his mind was racing to conjure up the accompanying images. All those nights he had lain awake, listening to Jaskier's sighs and moans, he wondered which of them there had been a man between his thighs.

Well, he had asked to be distracted. It was impossible now to think of anything else.

"What is it about married women?" he said. It felt a little like safer ground. Jaskier fucked women. Geralt could cope with that.

He shrugged. "The same thing that draws you to the brothel, I imagine."

"They're the only people who'll do it."

"If you ever opened your eyes, Geralt, you'd realise that they most certainly are not. Everyone wants to fuck you."

Geralt snorted. Experience had told him otherwise. That's what he should have said, or better yet, said nothing at all and let Jaskier drift towards a less dangerous topic of conversation. He did neither.

"You don't," he said.

He hated himself the moment the words left him. What madness had gripped him to even say it, he didn't know. Maybe the pain was getting to his head, stopping him from thinking straight. He couldn't rid himself of the images of Jaskier with other men.

Geralt's attention snapped back to the fire. Perhaps if he focused hard enough its crackling would drown out the sound of Jaskier's response.

He didn't want to hear it.

But he'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about it, not once entertained the idea of letting his hands wander while Jaskier was curled beside him at night, of discovering for himself just what it was about Jaskier that drove so many people into his bed. It didn't matter, regardless. Geralt shook his head, as if the movement might shake some sense into him. All it did was leave him dizzy.

"Of course I do."

The words were casual, like it was a fact so well known between them it was barely worth commenting on at all, but still they thundered through Geralt's mind. His skin burned. He didn't know how much of it was down to the venom coursing through him.

"But it's easier, isn't it?" Jaskier went on, and Geralt fumbled for a moment to remember what they had even been talking about. "No chance of anyone growing attached if it's just for a night."

Geralt hummed. Or he thought he did. He couldn't be sure if he was actually making any noise or not. "I wouldn't—" he swallowed, his throat bone dry "—have thought you'd go in for that sort of thing."

"Well I'll admit it does sound enticing, the idea of leaving a trail of people yearning in my wake. Desperate for just one more night together. Devastated at the thought of what horrors I may be off to bravely recount, from which I may never return..." He gazed off at nothing, losing himself in the fantasy for a moment, before his eyes returned to Geralt. He shrugged. "But more and more I find the reality isn't quite the grand romance you'd hope for."

He shifted closer, and for a moment Geralt was frozen by the absurd thought that Jaskier was closing the distance to act on the truth now out in the open between them. Instead, Jaskier pressed the backs of his fingers to Geralt's forehead. Geralt wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed by that.

"Geralt…" Jaskier said, brows furrowed in concern. Even the faint touch of his fingers on Geralt's skin was too much. "You're feverish."

"I'm fine." He tried to push Jaskier's hand away, and failed. His arm dropped uselessly back to his side.

"Sit tight. I'll be right back."

Whether Jaskier was gone for one minute or forty, Geralt couldn't tell. The silence dragged, curled around him like it was trying to crawl under his skin, and Geralt couldn't focus on anything but the pain stretching out from his leg. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe past it, past the dizziness and the nausea, until he heard the sound of boots crunching on loose stones, growing nearer.

Jaskier swam back into view, a water skin clutched in his hand, and he crouched at Geralt's side. He soaked a rag and touched it to Geralt's skin. It was like ice, like the worst winters at Kaer Morhen, a searing kind of cold. Geralt sucked a breath through his teeth at the sharp shock of it. It felt incredible.

"You've done this before, right?" Jaskier said as he pressed the cloth to Geralt's forehead, his cheeks, chasing away the heat bubbling beneath his skin. Geralt leant forward into the icy touch.

He made a noise he hoped sounded affirmative.

"Is there worse to come?"

Geralt shook his head. The motion brought with it a fresh surge of nausea, and he gripped at Jaskier's wrist. "I can ride it out," he said.

"I know."

He didn't sound any less concerned for it, though. Jaskier soaked the cloth again as Geralt sank back and closed his eyes, smoothing it over Geralt's neck and the exposed sliver of his chest.

"I've been working on a new song," Jaskier began.

"Tell me."

Jaskier stayed at his side as Geralt fought through waves of heat and pain, each a little easier than the last. He filled the silence with whatever thought popped into his head, the way he was so good at, sharing song ideas and filthy jokes and tales exaggerated beyond belief — if they had ever been true to begin with. Even when Geralt couldn't respond, couldn't even decipher the words through the heavy fog in his mind, Jaskier didn't stop talking.

His voice was growing hoarse by the time the sun had risen and Geralt was all but fully healed, nothing more to show for the night they had spent than an ache in his thigh and a pressing need to sink face first into the nearest bed and sleep. Geralt touched his hand to Jaskier's, still pressing the dampened cloth to his skin, and his talking stopped.

The quiet as they packed up their camp felt unnatural. Geralt would have thought it would be a blessing after hours with no escape from Jaskier's incessant chatter, yet there was a heavy weight to the silence, like a breath held too long, waiting for the right moment to exhale. Geralt could feel it as if it had taken form, sitting on his chest. Perhaps this was why Jaskier was always so keen to fill it.

And Jaskier. With a clearer head and no new conversation to capture his attention, Geralt couldn't help but think back to Jaskier's words by the fire. Of all the exploits Jaskier had recounted, there was one confession lodged firmly in Geralt's mind. He stood watching as Jaskier pulled an apple from his bag and fed it to Roach.

"You know," Jaskier said, after what felt like an interminable stretch of quiet, and his gaze flicked over to Geralt, "this might be the first time you've actually listened to anything I have to say."

Geralt smirked. "Don't get used to it."

"Go on, then; how badly did you want to punch me?"

Not at all. If anything, without the pain that had set his teeth on edge all night, he might have even enjoyed it. He didn't tell Jaskier that, of course.

With a smile Geralt retraced his steps to the drowner's head Jaskier had severed, lying forgotten amongst the long grass where Geralt had let it fall the night before, and he shoved it into a sack for their return to the village. There was no way he was leaving without being paid for this job.

Jaskier had slung his lute over his shoulder and was picking absently at the strap, his eyes following Geralt as he strode back towards Roach. Geralt examined Jaskier's gaze in return. He wondered how much was lurking beneath it. How much Jaskier had already made known, if only Geralt had chosen to listen.

"Jaskier," he started. "When you said you wanted to fuck me…"

Jaskier blinked. He let out an awkward laugh. "You remember that."

"I remember. Did you mean it?"

"Well… I mean, I wouldn't say no. If you ever asked. Not that I— think about it."

He had pointedly avoided Geralt's eyes during his rambling, staring off at the trees as if they were more fascinating than anything he had seen at Geralt's side, and Geralt wondered if it had been a mistake to broach the subject. Until Jaskier looked back at him, something like resignation settling in him under Geralt's scrutiny, and he sighed.

"All right," he said. "Yes, I meant it."

Geralt hummed as he turned to fiddle with Roach's saddlebags. He could feel his skin heating, faster now than it had as the venom had spread through him last night.

"What does that mean? Is that a good 'hmm' or a bad 'hmm'?" said Jaskier. "You know, as much as I love your famous monosyllabic responses they don't leave much scope for nuance."

"It means we should head back to town. You can do the talking." He climbed up onto Roach's back and urged her on. They were close enough to walk, but he'd rather keep the weight off of his leg for a while longer. Though perhaps it wouldn't be so bad having Jaskier pressed to his side to support him again. "Maybe you can scrounge enough extra coin to buy us a room."

"Oh," he heard Jaskier say from over his shoulder, and a moment later: " _Oh_."

Geralt grinned at the sound of Jaskier scrambling after him.

**Author's Note:**

> In case of any confusion, the monsters Geralt fights at the beginning are drowned dead rather than regular drowners, hence the poison. I don't know whether the two creatures are distinct enough that describing them as drowners is inaccurate or not; using the term drowners just sounded less clunky.


End file.
